I took Fox to get his first round of immunization shots Wednesday last week. It was time for shots to protect him from hepatitis B, diphtheria, tetanus, whooping cough, polio, rota virus and several additional diseases that neither you nor I really understand.
This was necessary because Fox recently passed the two-month mark. He has thus far distinguished himself by being fond of peeing on dad during diaper changes, never getting tired of the mobile above his crib -- featuring a constantly repeating triple medley of colorful giraffes, zebras and elephants passing above his head -- and, of late, sticking out his tongue when prompted by me or his grandfather. In the two months of his baby life nothing really bad has ever happened to him.
As soon as I finished writing that sentence it occurred to me that Fox has been circumcised. So I take all of that back. In fact, after he was circumcised the perky female nurse at the hospital who talks like everyone is younger than four in that sing-songy voice that always manages to end with an exclamation assured us that "it's perfectly normal if he's grouchy for a day or so! He may not even be very hungry!" You think? A part of his penis was just sawed off!
Later I discussed this with other dads and we discovered it's always female nurses who deliver news like this. I think that's because even though there's not a ton of male nurses with the newborn babies it's the kind of thing that would cause post-traumatic stress if you dealt with it too often. Right now a lot of guys are shifting uncomfortably in their seats just thinking about circumcision. I'm sorry for taking y'all there.
Anyway, since a part of his penis was removed, nothing bad has happened to Fox. Until the shots. So I carried Fox into the appointment. His mom couldn't come but she had given me a written and detailed list of questions that she wanted analyzed by the doctor. Sample: "How often should he be pooing in light of a recent shift between breast milk and Similac advanced formula when that switch happened on the waning crescent as opposed to the waxing crescent of the moon and one of the months of Fox's life has been a leap year?"
Then she wanted me to repeat what the doctor said in response to this question. Verbatim. As you can imagine this fell apart fast. As soon as the shots were over all I could remember was that Fox's head size was in the 75th percentile.
As doomsday approached, Fox was blissfully ignorant to the fate that was shortly to befall him. First, we stripped him down to his diaper. He lay on the table wriggling and smiling. The world was all rainbows and breast milk. He was weighed, measured and brought back to me. Then the nurse arrived. She informed me that it was her job to give all the shots to the babies.
This was jarring for two reasons; A) They actually have one nurse specialize in this. I hate needles. Looking at them, being stuck by them, thinking about where they go when they have been used, just typing this sentence has made me cringe. How can there be someone who chooses to specialize in stabbing babies with sharp objects?
And B) The nurse was a young Indian woman with a really strong Southern accent. This is still jarring to me. Not only the Southern accent but the overwhelming strength of it. It was Scarlett O'Hara meets Bollywood. I wrote in Dixieland Delight that some of the most Southern people I knew were recent arrivals, but still, this is jarring. Somehow it's perfect for a person who makes their living sticking babies with sharp objects.
Anyway, she lays out her glistening array of needles on the table in front of me. I pick up Fox and lay him down on a disposable paper covering of smiling puppies and fire trucks. First they gave Fox an oral vaccine that he took down with no trouble. Then she uncovered the needle caps. Fox was still ecstatically unaware. I tickled him and he cooed. I felt like one of Caesar's assassins. "Et tu, daddy, et tu," I pictured Fox saying if, you know, he could speak.
The professional sticker looked at me. "Now y'all think he's ready?" she drawled. Of course he wasn't ready. He had no clue that needles, disease or even death existed. I had a clue and I wasn't ready. Then she grabbed his chubby little legs and bang, Fox was stabbed with a needle for the first time. The sheer incomprehensibility of the fact that he'd been stabbed with a needle meant it took a second for him to react.
By that time our Indian inoculator was on to the second needle. She stabbed him in the other leg. Fox howled. Then, for good measure, she stabbed him in the same leg once more. Fox screamed as if the colored giraffe was stolen from his mobile. But then, just as quickly, dad was there to pick him up and promise that he wouldn't have to be stuck again for two months.
As I tried to get him to stop crying, I thought about how little pain inoculations cause compared to the pain they prevent. And because I'm a borderline adult, I immediately started thinking about my own life while I looked to see if Fox's pediatrician gave out free suckers. (Cheapskates. Mine did. It's a good thing Lara made our doctor selection. I would have walked into the office, looked around, sidled up to the front desk, winked and said, "Forget about your qualifications, where do you keep the candy?")
